Awakening
by Wilusa
Summary: At the turn of the millennium, Duncan MacLeod is grieving for Richie...and convinced that his own end is, and should be, near. A mysterious foe is eager to make his death wish come true. Part 1 of a Millennium Trilogy.


DISCLAIMER: Highlander and its canon characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions; no copyright infringement is intended.

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_The waiting seems eternity,_

_The day will dawn on sanity..._

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_This is a kind of magic._

_There can be only One._

_This race that lasts a thousand years_

_Will soon be done..._

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"A Kind of Magic," **Queen**

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**I **

Awkward. Achingly young.

The words still echoed in Duncan MacLeod's mind, Richie's words, spoken an hour after the teenager took his first head.

_"I just never figured it like this. I was gonna have friends, get a job, meet a girl. It's all backwards now."_

_The words, yes, but no image of his face when he said them_, MacLeod thought savagely as he whipped his car around the final bend. _Because I was looking away. Shutting him out, even then._

A sharp skid on a patch of ice reminded him that the cemetery road was not as well maintained as the Paris streets. He corrected for the skid, and slowed the Range Rover to a sedate crawl.

At least there were no revelers here, no drunks to watch out for. But he had not completely escaped the citywide block party that was Paris. He could still hear the tooting horns, the shrieks of laughter, the inane music of deliberately triggered, warring car alarms.

Not like a year ago. On the last day of 1999 the city had been eerily still, holding its collective breath. But Year 2000 had been a well-behaved babe - not bringing with it the Second Coming, the outbreak of war, or even a crash of the world's computer systems. The prophets of doom had been discredited, and had, in the end, joined in the good-natured laughter at their expense.

That laughter had cleared the air. That, and the fact that the one realistic danger, a computer breakdown, was undeniably over and done with. When the public finally caught on that the new millennium would only begin with 2001 - because there had never been a Year Zero - they hailed its approach with glee.

A glee that would have been misplaced, MacLeod knew, if he had not defeated the demon Ahriman. But at what cost, at what unbearable cost?

He drove through the old part of the cemetery, with its forest of densely clustered headstones. Never glanced to his right, though he knew exactly when he passed Tessa's grave...the grave that would one day be opened, if the Watchers honored Joe Dawson's pledge, to receive his ashes. He seldom stopped there now.

The new section had seen fewer burials, and headstones were more widely spaced. At any other time of year, the landscaping would be attractive. Thanks to advance planning, the roadside was even dotted with trees.

But the dead here were just as dead.

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MacLeod was able to drive to within a few yards of his destination. He noted thankfully that the sounds of merrymaking had finally died away.

As he stepped out of the heated car, without donning his jacket, he forced himself not to shiver. _No Immortal has ever died of a chill, I told him._ Then he thought of his sword lying on the seat, and locked the door...though he wouldn't be far enough from it for even a mortal thief to approach undetected.

Old habits die hard.

Like old Immortals.

He walked the short distance to Richie's grave and dropped to his knees, briefly regretting that there was only a dusting of snow on the ground. _Why do I want to do penance by kneeling in a snowbank, when no penance can be enough?_

This headstone, he knew, had occasioned talk because of the simplicity of its legend:

_Richie Ryan_

_22 Years_

_Friend_

But Joe had made the right choice. Professional motorcycle racer Richie Ryan had been "dead" in France for two and a half years before his actual death. Rather than bury him under the alias on his forged passport, Joe had pretended this was a reinterment. Then he'd had to decide whether to put a false year of death on the stone, or none. He had felt this was no place for a lie.

And the odd inscription captured the terrible uniqueness of Richie's death.

Still, despite the appropriateness of the stone, MacLeod felt no sense of the young Immortal's presence. No contact. Not here, and not with the Quickening he had taken into himself.

Not any more.

_"Don't tell me you really believed me, Mac, when I said I was sure I wouldn't have made it to age twenty if I hadn't met you? Huh. I was a better liar than I thought. I was just trying to make you feel good. You felt bad enough about Tessa._

"_Truth time, old buddy. I became Immortal way too soon because I got mixed up with you. The youth I should have had? Down the tubes._

_"If I'd been a really bad kid, you think you could have straightened me out so quickly? No way._

_"I would have gotten through sowing my wild oats on my own. Had a racing career, without taking dumb risks. And I would have married Donna, raised Jeremy as my son. Donna wasn't lying about Jeremy, you know - she really believed I was his dad._

_"I probably would have become Immortal in my fifties or sixties. Then, okay, I wouldn't have lasted long. So what? I would have had the things I always wanted, maybe even grandchildren. Never expected more._

_"Hey, the life I would have had may not seem like much to you. But it sure beats being robbed of your youth, then killed by your best friend at twenty-two."_

In nightmare after fevered nightmare, throughout MacLeod's long agony in Malaysia, Richie had hurled those bitter words at him. Those...and others.

And not only in nightmares.

For a part of Richie was within him. Had he not been influenced by other entities during the Dark Quickening? Counseled and comforted by Sean Burns? Contact was rare, and in most cases, rightly so - no threat to identity. Nevertheless, every Immortal whose Quickening he had tasted, directly or indirectly, was as truly present in him as Christ in the Eucharist.

But the soul of Duncan MacLeod was no tabernacle. And the shade of Richie Ryan had been in no mood to give aid and comfort.

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He wondered, now, whether Richie had been right about his destiny. His view was at odds with the vision MacLeod had been granted by Hugh Fitzcairn. In that MacLeod-less reality, Richie had, in Fitz's words, "lived and died a thief." He'd become Immortal at twenty, shot by a man whose house he'd broken into. And he'd been killed a few months later by his teacher, a career-criminal Methos, when he'd drawn the line at committing murder.

But over the years, MacLeod had come to doubt that vision. It still warmed him to know that Fitz - also present in him, since he had killed Fitz's killer - had gone to such lengths to convince him his life had value. Now, however, he suspected the alternate reality had been a product of Fitz's imagination.

He had tried to check it out. Neither he nor a team of investigators could find any evidence of the real existence of an "Andres Seguy" who might, under other circumstances, have married Tessa. Or a "Jillian" who might have met Methos, and become his lover, if he had not left Paris for two months in the spring of 1995. They'd considered two dozen possible countries of origin for the Spanish-named Seguy, and a half-dozen variants of the name Jillian.

Even if the vision was real, MacLeod thought sourly, it was a highly selective look at the impact of his life. If he hadn't existed, Debra Campbell probably would have given her heart to Robert MacLeod and found happiness with him. Robert might well have become clan chieftain. Louise Barton would have escaped being murdered in her twenties by the jealous Immortal Kristin, and gone on to greater fame as an artist. Diane Terrin would have won major journalism awards for her World War II reporting, and lived to marry a man who could give her the children and grandchildren she dreamed of.

Most significantly, the vision had made no mention of Ahriman. Implying that if Duncan MacLeod had never existed, some other Immortal would have been called upon to save the world, and succeeded as well as he.

Maybe that Immortal could have done it without killing one of his closest friends.

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Friends.

Just that morning, in separate phone calls (during which MacLeod had insisted they leave him alone that day and night), both Joe and Methos had tried to gloss over his responsibility for Richie's death.

Joe said earnestly, "He would have been dead before May '97, Mac, if you hadn't saved his life. Twice, in the space of a few months! Jennifer Hill had shot him and was about to take his head, remember? And William Culbraith had caught him unarmed. He was a goner, both times, if you hadn't shown up.

"Maybe a third time, too. Haresh Clay probably would have killed him, if you hadn't convinced him you were entitled to first crack at Clay because of an old grudge."

Methos offered an Immortal's perspective. "I can't deny twenty-two is too young. But aside from that... Think, MacLeod. How would any Immortal choose to die, if he knew he must? He wouldn't want to be the loser in a fight. He'd rather be decapitated accidentally, while doing something noble, and have a friend there to receive his Quickening.

"Richie was one of the lucky few. He got to go that way. His standing by you in that crisis was heroic. And Ahriman wanted him dead, but you sure as hell didn't. In my book, that's an accident."

It all made sense.

And was all completely irrelevant.

As was the question of what would have happened if Richie had never known Duncan MacLeod. He _had_ known him...with fatal consequences.

_"I figured it all out, you know? Right at the end._

_"I should have seen it coming. Hell, it was the third time you'd tried to kill me! First, when Garrick was messing with your mind. Then the Dark Quickening thing. And finally, Ahriman._

_"Sure, you always had an excuse. But why was it, whenever you were off your feed, you came after me? Take the Dark Quickening. You never attacked Joe or Methos. And how come I was the first student you'd taken on in almost two hundred years?_

_"Do you even understand it yourself, dummy? You always wanted to kill me! You couldn't be that close to a vulnerable young Immortal without lusting for his Quickening. Someone you'd taught, someone you and maybe only you could take out easily. Someone your damned honor would never allow you to kill, even in a fair fight._

_"Drove you nuts, didn't it?"_

MacLeod squeezed his eyelids shut. Trying, not to dispel the memory of those horrific visitations in the months after Richie's death, but to summon it back.

Richie clutching him, shaking him. Hot breath, spittle striking his face...

Gone.

He moaned. _Were you right about me, Richie? I'm not sure of anything any more._

_Right or wrong, could I feel your presence again if I admitted it?_

No, it was too late to bargain with Richie. He had brought this crushing isolation on himself.

For the taking of his friend's head was not his worst sin.

Shattered by that tragedy, he had longed for death. But duty had driven him to fight on - to survive at all costs, resume the battle against Ahriman.

To survive, he had denied the truth. On his return to Paris, he had insisted Ahriman had murdered Richie, and he had merely been the weapon. He'd made himself believe that. But in fact, however he'd been tricked and tormented - however impaired he'd been - he had not been possessed. His lapse of judgment had killed Richie.

To achieve his self-deception, he had forced the embittered revenant of Richie out of his mind. Convinced himself Richie "understood" the incomprehensible, forgave the unforgivable.

He knew better now. He had faced the truth years ago. But Richie was gone, beyond his reach. He'd pay any price for a renewal of contact...for anything, even an eternity of Richie's spewing invective at him.

But he had shut Richie out, and he knew his punishment was just. The door he had closed would never open again.

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He sighed and heaved himself to his feet, stiff from the cold and long kneeling. The waning light told him it was past four o'clock; he'd been brooding over an hour.

He crossed himself - another old habit - and trudged back toward the car.

In the gutter, where someone else had been parked, he saw a dirty, battered styrofoam cup.

_That's me, a used styrofoam cup. Someone - God? - drained me dry, then crushed me and threw me away. Now I'm empty, damaged, worn out. But I'm not recyclable, so I just have to go on existing._

On a sudden impulse, he rescued the poor little cup and smoothed it out as best he could. The nearest tree was an oak, with leaves loyally clinging to it in midwinter. He plucked a few from a low-hanging branch...deep golden brown, with a burnished, metallic sheen. Beautiful, like so many of nature's wonders that are heedlessly overlooked.

He arranged the leaves in the cup, and added a sprig of evergreen. Loyalty, the lustre of sword or armor, ever-renewed life. Then he walked back and laid his makeshift bouquet on Richie's grave. _It's not a spray of chrysanthemums, Richie. But I don't see you relating to flowers, anyway._

He found himself adding a serious postscript. _If I can somehow make amends...if I can fill the empty cup that is Duncan MacLeod by dedicating it to your memory, my friend, I will._

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He headed for the car.

But then, unwisely, he turned to look back.

Just as a gust of wind came out of nowhere and swept his humble offering away.

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**II**

By nine o'clock MacLeod was sprawled in a chair on the dimly lit barge, testing his resolve not to drink. If he started, he'd probably drink himself into a stupor. And that was one habit he didn't want to form.

The din outside was unceasing, though mercifully distant. Bursts of light at the portholes told him not all the fireworks were being saved till midnight.

Could these rowdies possibly be the same ones who'd been at it all day? He pictured hordes of them collapsing in the streets, and more hordes appearing, carelessly treading on the fallen.

_**Battle raged around him. Blinded by snow, he struggled to carry a wounded man behind the lines to some healer named Darius. Wincing whenever he stepped on the snow-covered dead and dying...**_

He grunted, hitched himself upright in the chair, and tried to banish the memory.

Only to hear a blast that sounded uncomfortably like cannon fire.

_I'm too old. Too many memories, ghosts in every corner._

Too old...yes, that was part of his problem. Champion of the millennium that was ending, he was one with it, heart and soul. He had fulfilled his life's mission by routing Ahriman, preserving the world for future generations. But in so doing, he had received a wound that would never heal.

All that remained for him now was to meet his heir...his deliverer. The mystery-shrouded Immortal innocent who would - if history repeated itself - receive his Quickening, and take his place in the eternal fray.

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That thought impelled him, finally, to open a bottle of Scotch.

He poured some into a glass, sipped it cautiously, and set the glass down. Closed his eyes and let the liquor run slowly down his throat, its taste taking him back to the Scotland of his youth.

_**He stood again in a foul-smelling, grime-encrusted cave, straining to see through the greasy smoke that rose from a peat fire. Haze distorted the features of his host, an unkempt, unwashed hermit. But there was no mistaking the madness in those glittering eyes. "I have waited in this place for six hundred years, for you," the hermit intoned in a singsong voice...**_

MacLeod came back to the present with a start, heard a whimper escape his lips.

But the memory would not be denied. Hunched over in shock, he relived the hermit's ghastly suicide, the Quickening forced on him before he understood what he was. For the first time, he truly grieved for that ravaged man who'd been required to outlive all he knew, linger through six centuries of an alien era, to await his heir.

_The Champion of the dying millennium should die with it._

MacLeod examined that thought, turning it over and over in his mind. His promise to Amanda... No, he would never break it, never throw his life away without a fight.

But he sensed that life was meant to end with the millennium. Not his choice, his destiny.

He took a long, slow sip of Scotch, settled back, and waited.

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_Immortal. On the dock._

MacLeod took a deep, steadying breath.

The sensation was not followed by footsteps on the gangplank or a cheery greeting. Not Methos, then, or any other friend.

He took up his sword and went on deck.

And cursed himself for having sampled that whiskey. He was far from drunk, yet his perceptions were strangely altered. The wave-lapped barge had drifted into a surreal realm: he faced not the city of Paris but inky blackness, the void beyond the stars. The cries in the distance had become the anguished wails of lost souls.

Then a burst of fireworks seared the sky, grotesque flowers of light strewn on a cosmic graveyard. He saw that there was indeed a dock at the end of his gangplank. And on it a hooded, cowled figure, a shadow solidifying into substance and form. Sword held aloft, stained crimson by the unearthly light.

_Death himself...?_

He fought down the superstitious dread that seized him. _This is my heir, as guileless as I was in 1625._ As night descended again, he announced with his usual firmness, "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

The response was low, unsettling..._laughter_. Then a grating voice out of the darkness: "What, not expecting me?"

MacLeod's flesh crawled. Coming from everywhere and nowhere, it seemed the voice of every male Immortal he had ever fought. No, every male Immortal he had ever known.

He was about to say, "In a way, I have been expecting you."

But before he could speak, his visitor snapped, "Have you forgotten Pellinore?"

_Pellinore?_ MacLeod recoiled as if he'd been struck. For some reason, he hadn't expected the heir to bear a grudge, have an agenda of his own.

He thought furiously. Pellinore? The name seemed familiar... No, surely not from personal acquaintance. But he knew it was a masculine name, not a place. Was this Immortal saying he was Pellinore, or seeking to avenge a friend by that name? _Either way, I should remember._

Again, the voice that was all voices. "Come on, Pellinore wasn't so long ago."

_He isn't Pellinore. It's revenge._

Feeling faintly ridiculous, MacLeod said, "Uh, excuse me. I'm willing to fight you. But...I don't think I've ever killed an Immortal named Pellinore."

More brittle, mirthless laughter. "For once, you're telling the truth. You didn't kill Pellinore."

Then why -?

"A bit fuddled, are we? I thought I might find you prematurely celebrating."

"I haven't been celebrating."

"No? That's too bad. You won't get another opportunity." Naked hate in the voice now. "I'm sending you to the pits of hell tonight."

Resentment stirred in MacLeod's breast, and he tightened his grip on his sword. "That may not be as easy as you think."

"Don't kid yourself. I'm more than the equal of Pellinore." That name again. "I'm just more patient. You didn't expect me to wait so long, did you? But this is the way it should be. Deadline staring us in the face. One roll of the dice, winner take all."

_He's insane_, MacLeod thought suddenly. _And despite the modern jargon, probably older than I am. His friend had a medieval name._

_This, the next Champion? Already old, bitter, mad as a hatter? He won't stand a chance against Ahriman._

In an attempt to interject some reason into the discussion, he said, "Could you at least tell me what you think I did to Pellinore?"

His answer was a near-howl of outrage. "What I think you did? Are you going to insult my intelligence by denying it?"

"I'm starting to think you don't have any intelligence." He'd had enough of this. "If you want to fight, quit talking and come aboard. The light's better here."

_Actually, the light's terrible, but I'll have an advantage because I'm used to the motion of the barge. And my eyes are accustomed to the dark now, so you've lost that edge._

Primed for a fight, MacLeod was ready for anything.

Except what his opponent said next.

"Thanks for the invitation, Ahriman."

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_"Ahriman?"_ Reality was skittering away from him; the deck seemed unstable beneath his feet. "I'm Duncan MacLeod -"

"Drop the act, Ahriman!" His challenger leapt onto the gangplank, revealing himself as a black-clad man of average height and build. "Are you forgetting I'm the one person who knows Duncan MacLeod is dead?" He flung back his hood.

_**Richie.**_

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MacLeod fell heavily to his knees, and the sword dropped from his nerveless hand.

_It can't be. A trick of the light, or the lack of light..._

The other man reached him in one bound, kicked the katana the length of the deck. In an instant his sword was at MacLeod's throat. MacLeod peered up at him.

Long, matted hair of indeterminate color. A tangle of beard. Sunken eyes that blazed defiance, set in a pale, careworn face.

But despite the cruel changes, unmistakably Richie Ryan.

_Avenging spirit_, MacLeod thought wildly. _Yes, Richie, take me. I don't deserve to live._

Then another thought intruded. _No avenging spirit would think I was Ahriman._

Richie was blinking at him in amazement. "You really didn't know who I was till you saw my face." Amazement flared into anger, and the sword quivered dangerously. "You counted me out from the start. And you didn't know what I was talking about - meaning you never even bothered to learn Pellinore's name!"

"Richie." Dazed and floundering, MacLeod clung to his one shred of certainty. "I'm not Ahriman. I'm Duncan MacLeod."

_"I received Duncan MacLeod's Quickening!"_

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The truth crashed in on MacLeod with the force of a tidal wave.

A part of him reeled at the implications. The viciousness of it, the sadism.

But another part murmured, _Of course. I should have known. Why would Ahriman settle for torturing one Immortal when he could torture two?_

It was stunningly clear now. He himself had received a false Quickening. He'd thought of that possibility at the time, prayed it might be so. But then, in his overwrought state, he had despaired when a "living" Richie turned out to be Ahriman. Even though he had already seen evidence Ahriman could be in two or more places at once.

All those months. Those hurtful thoughts in his mind, not Richie's at all. And he had "lost contact" because he'd defeated Ahriman!

"Listen to me, Richie." _Speak quickly but calmly. He's not insane. He'll listen to reason._ "You received a false Quickening. You believe you killed Duncan MacLeod in May '97, right? At the old racetrack? I am MacLeod - and I thought I had killed you! Ahriman played the same fiendish trick on both of us. Probably at opposite ends of the track."

Richie was paying attention, but MacLeod didn't like the look on his face. Nevertheless, he plunged ahead. "I can guess what you did after that. You didn't feel you could face anyone you knew, ever again. So you buried the body in secret and fled Paris. I would have done the same thing, but Joe and Methos walked in on me.

"The Watchers have never picked you up again, have they? Doesn't that seem strange, after all this time? They weren't looking for you, because Joe had reported you dead!"

"Bravo." Under the ragged beard, Richie's mouth curled in a sneer. "Great story. I have to admire your powers of invention."

"Richie, I'm not -"

"First, about the Watchers," Richie said with maddening deliberateness. "They didn't pick me up because I'm one of the few Immortals who know about them and consciously avoid them. And I've changed my appearance. 'Nuff said.

"But beyond that..." His voice sank to a deadly hiss. "You don't understand, Ahriman. It's no use lying to me. I _know_. I know what happened a thousand years ago."

"A...thousand years ago?" MacLeod had learned virtually nothing about that fight against Ahriman. His attempts to access the hermit's Quickening had been fruitless - no surprise, after the passage of so many years. He and the Watchers had unearthed some information about earlier eras, but not that one.

Richie had devoted more time to the search, he realized. He'd been needlessly poring over musty records two and a half years after the battle was won.

"Do you even remember Oriant's name?" Richie's tone was withering. "He was the Champion. And you, you bastard, tricked his best friend Pellinore into killing him.

"But then Pellinore found out what happens if you get rid of the Champion. You assume his identity. After the turn of the millennium you'd be all-powerful, right? _Truly_ immortal in the form of a respected human, and able to morph at will. Your first priority would probably be to kill all the Immortals.

"But if you 'win' too early, you're at risk. You have to take the Champion's form then, or never. If you keep it a certain number of days, you're stuck in it till the millennium. And during that time, the body can be killed by beheading like any Immortal's. Meaning you lose after all."

_That's why he's so confidently standing over me with a sword. Oh God, no, no..._

"You underestimated Pellinore. Must have been as cocky then as you were this time. So he caught you off guard and took your head. He was never really sane again, never recovered from his killing of Oriant...but at least he had the satisfaction of sending you back where you belong. Just like I will."

"Pellinore was the hermit," MacLeod whispered.

And thought grimly, _Sophie Baines did say every Champion has to find his own way._

_But now, even though the world is safe, Ahriman may score a terrible victory in the end. If Richie takes my head and receives my actual Quickening, he'll know what he's done. How can he possibly cope with that, after all he's been through already?_

"This time is different, Richie. Ahriman tricked both of us, and I defeated him over two years ago." He groped frantically. "Consider this. I've never seen you with hair that long - and you've never seen Duncan MacLeod with hair this short. If I were Ahriman, wouldn't I appear to you as a MacLeod looking exactly as you remember him?"

"You're a demon, not a ghost." For the moment, Richie was savoring his distress. "It only shows that your tastes are different from Mac's. You didn't recognize me till I was practically on top of you. Anyway, I don't think you _can_ magically add inches to your hair right now."

MacLeod tried again. "Okay. You think I'm a demon, and I've been impersonating Duncan MacLeod for three and a half years. Do you really believe I could have fooled Joe Dawson all that time? Methos? Amanda?"

Richie's sardonic smile faded. "I have only your word that any of them are still alive. And I'm not going to stop now to find out. Besides," he added thoughtfully, "I believe you could have clouded their minds. I'm the only one you can't deceive - because I have the Champion's Quickening."

_Perfect._ MacLeod clutched at another straw. "The Quickening. Richie, if you believe you have Duncan MacLeod's Quickening, you must have tried to make contact. Think about it. What did you find? Wasn't it out of character?" _Please, God, let him realize what I did..._

But Richie was shaking his head. "No," he said softly. "I found understanding, forgiveness. Though it didn't help me forgive myself.

"And also - mostly - I found grief. Grief that by accidentally killing the Champion, I had doomed the world. That almost did me in."

Tears stung MacLeod's eyes. _Damn. Ahriman played him like a fiddle. I'd like to think that if he had really killed me, I wouldn't have communicated a defeatist attitude. But I can't convince him it wasn't me. What Ahriman gave him wasn't as obviously "off" as hatred would have been._

"Richie!" Desperate now. "Doesn't it seem unlikely Ahriman would fall into the same trap, let himself be defeated the same way, twice in a row?"

"I'm getting bored with your games," Richie said ominously. "But I'll go round the mulberry bush once more.

"_You_ never expected me to learn anything about last time. If you didn't know Pellinore's name, I'm sure you didn't know Mac had received his Quickening.

"As it turned out, that Quickening didn't do me any good. Pellinore was so ashamed of having killed Oriant that he suppressed his memories, even if he was consciously trying to pass them on. But I knew from Mac that he'd lived as a hermit in Scotland for six hundred years before he killed himself in 1625. I took it from there.

"Guess you didn't know much about me, either. Richie Ryan, burglar extraordinaire - especially after I picked up some tips from Mac's friend Amanda. I'm mostly retired these days. But I figured a medieval type like Pellinore would have told his whole story, once, to his confessor. And any priest worth his salt would have convinced the guy to let him leave a record for the Church.

"Found what I was looking for in the most secret files of the Vatican. Like I said, burglar extraordinaire."

_Oh, Richie. You should have been the Champion. All that effort...an approach I never thought of, even when I confided my own secrets to Father Beaufort. But all for nothing. You're going to have your heart broken, your spirit broken._

Richie's sword caressed his neck. The sword he had given him and thought buried with him, the magnificent blade of Graham Ashe. "You never worried about me at all, did you? Because you knew how much I loved Duncan MacLeod. You thought I'd seek out the nearest Immortal to kill me - and he'd be no threat to you because he'd be screwed up by getting my Quickening along with Mac's. Or else I'd just head for the nearest _railroad track._

"I almost did. But then I decided to fight. To go down, if I had to, with honor. At least in that small way, to be worthy of my teacher.

"And now" - a bleak, twisted smile - "you're the one who's going down."

MacLeod was lost in a morass of recrimination. _I've been a fool, wallowing in depression and self-pity. I had no earthly reason to believe my "heir" was destined to kill me, now or ever. Pellinore just happened to be psychic. He wasn't even the original Champion!_

_I should have been using my wits. Why didn't I see through that false Quickening? If only I'd searched for Richie, found him before he found me..._

Too late, too late.

He took a deep breath - _not many left_ - and focused on the present.

_He's going to kill me. I can't prevent that._

_But I can do everything in my power to save him._

"Richie." He gasped as the sword brushed him again. "I won't argue any more. But please, can I have a minute or two to prepare myself? Right here...I won't move."

Richie snorted. "Oh, this I have to see. Are you going to pretend to pray?"

"Think what you will," MacLeod said wearily.

"Go ahead, but don't take too long. I know what I'm doing. I won't _let_ you take too long."

MacLeod looked up into the granite-hard face. One last look.

_I don't need to pray. All I could have prayed for, I've already been given. You, alive._

Then he closed his eyes. If they opened again, he'd be past knowing.

There was no point in trying to disguise his Quickening. He almost certainly couldn't do it. Even if he could, Richie would be bound to run into Joe or someone else who'd tell him what had really happened.

No, the situation called for honesty. And that was no problem. Just still the turmoil in his mind, and use his last thoughts to emphasize what he most wanted his friend to know.

_Richie...this is really me. I can't prevent your knowing that, and I'm sorry for the pain it's going to cause you._

_But you mustn't despair, and you mustn't blame yourself. Ahriman caused all this, not either of us_.

_We both slipped up three years ago, each thought we had killed the other - and easily could have. I'm guessing Ahriman didn't let you kill me because he knew that would give you Pellinore's Quickening, and didn't let me kill you because he wanted to torment both of us. Tonight, the only reason I was in no danger of mistaking you for Ahriman was that I knew I had already defeated him._

_If we weren't capable of making mistakes - even tragic ones - we wouldn't be human, Richie. And then we wouldn't be able to relate to mortals at all, wouldn't be able to share the wonderful loves and friendships we do with them._

_If one of us has to die before this is over, it's infinitely preferable that it be me. I've had a long life, over four hundred years. A wealth of experiences._

_One of my most treasured experiences was finding you. I've never put this into words, Richie, but I love you. When I was young, I dreamed of the strong sons I'd have. And all those dreams are fulfilled, a hundred times over, in you. No Immortal has ever been prouder of a student, no parent prouder of a child._

_I want you to have my sword. I know you won't feel comfortable using it, at least right away. And your own is just as good. But keep it. Someday, maybe centuries from now, you'll know in your heart that you should either begin carrying it, or give it to a special student of your own._

He paused to collect his thoughts, and found himself wondering whether the blow had already fallen. Perhaps death was a smooth, painless transition?

If he was still alive, he was too deep in an altered state of consciousness to think of trying to open his eyes. Instead, he peered into the darkness that waited to embrace him. And saw, or thought he saw...

_Tessa? Tessa, I didn't kill him! I can face you now..._

No! He pulled back from the vision, real or imagined. He might still be influencing the Quickening. Think of Richie, only of Richie.

_Richie, I repeat, you mustn't blame yourself. Everything is all right now. For the first time in years, everything is truly all right._

_I believe a part of me will travel on - be reunited, somewhere, with Tessa and Darius and Fitz. But another part of me will remain with you. You'll always be able to feel my love, my pride._

_It's important that you go on living, my son. Living, dreaming, working to build a better world. I want you to appreciate, for both of us, all the glories of this universe that's unfolding. Live for millennia, Richie! Journey to the stars! You'll be taking a part of me with you. I want you to take me to the stars!_

_And never, never waste valuable years of your life grieving for the people and things that have to be left behind. Especially not for the part of me you're leaving behind. There's no need to grieve. I feel only peace and joy, the purest joy I've ever known..._

A sound.

There had been a background cacophony all along, noise he could accept and ignore. This was different. Close at hand. Something...metal? Clattering on a wooden surface?

Directly in front of him, a dull thud. _Could I hear my own head falling? No, that makes no sense at all._

Headless or not, he felt himself toppling forward. Into someone's arms.

And then - was it all in his mind? - the night exploded in a riot of bells, horns, sirens and rocket blasts.

It was like...

Like...

Like midnight on New Year's Eve.

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**III**

He woke with the aroma of coffee in his nostrils.

And was instantly aware of the presence of another Immortal. _Amanda_, he thought lazily. _Always in such a rush for her coffee._

Snug and warm under a mound of blankets, lulled by the gentle motion of the barge, he felt no sense of urgency about opening his eyes. Drifted down, down...

_**Years had fallen away, but he was still on the barge, still relaxing in bed with his eyes closed. He knew Tessa was beside him, her soft body inches from his. And on the other side of their privacy curtain, Richie was sacked out on the couch, a happy-go-lucky teenager with no worries beyond the impression he'd make on his next date. Or maybe it was Richie who'd gotten up to start the coffee -**_

Whoa. _Richie._

Memories came flooding back. They'd been on deck. Richie, about to take his head.

A dream? Richie's being alive, a _**dream? Oh no, no!**_

His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright.

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And was engulfed in a bear hug. "Mac! Thank God you're all right. You are all right, aren't you? Talk to me!"

_"Richie?"_ Suddenly, he was laughing and crying at once. "I'm fine. If you're really here. Let me look at you! Oh, Richie..."

Seen close up in the candlelit cabin, Richie's face was even more haggard than it had appeared on deck. But MacLeod noted with relief that the muscles under his black sweatshirt were still rock-solid.

At the same time, he remembered Amanda was half a world away and he hadn't seen her in months. _I won't be that careless again._ All of a sudden, dying seemed like a very bad idea.

"I, um, I told you, um, um -" Methos sauntered into view, balancing a plate in one hand and waggling a fork with the other. He swallowed, said, "I told you he was all right, Richie," and stuffed another forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

_Pancakes?_

Richie glared. "Can you believe this guy, Mac? I knock myself out to get hold of an Immortal doctor, and he just comes over here and feeds his face. The only remedy he could think of was smelling salts!"

"_I_ suggested the smell of coffee might bring you around," Joe Dawson said virtuously. MacLeod noticed Joe was helping himself to the coffee.

He fended off the solicitous Richie and scrambled out of bed, pleased to discover his friends hadn't undressed him. Fresh as a daisy he wasn't, but at least he wasn't naked or clad only in his briefs. "Has anyone seen my shoes?"

Richie produced one shoe, and Methos found the other and propelled it across the floor with his foot. While MacLeod was putting them on, Methos said, "You should be thankful for my good sense. Richie thought you were in a coma. If it were up to him, you'd be attached to an IV! I told him you'd just fainted - years of strain catching up with you - and you needed a few hours' rest." Then he snickered. "As a matter of fact, I detected a wee bit of the hair o' the dog on your breath."

MacLeod opened his mouth to protest, but Richie beat him to it. "He wasn't drunk!"

"No," MacLeod chimed in. "Just a little...fuddled." He caught Richie's eye, and they both grinned. "No trace of a hangover."

Then he decided the banter had gone on long enough. "Richie. Why didn't you kill me?"

Methos drifted back to the table, and he and Joe seemed suddenly absorbed in their breakfast. They'd undoubtedly heard the whole story, but now they tried to make themselves invisible.

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Richie sank down on the edge of the bed next to MacLeod. "I...I still get the shakes when I think about...how close I came."

"It's okay," MacLeod said quickly. "If you don't feel like talking about it, that's okay too. We're both alive. I can accept that and go on."

"No." Richie stared down at his clenched fists, battling to bring his voice under control. "I want to tell you. Have to tell you.

"Mac, I was so sure you were Ahriman. Not a doubt in my mind." He shuddered. "I just let you talk to see how you'd try to weasel out of it. I thought you were trying to stall till after midnight, the turn of the millennium.

"But I was prepared for that. I'd waited till almost the last minute in hopes of catching Ahriman drunk, or at least off guard. I had a tiny transistor radio in my ear, broadcasting the celebration in the heart of town. That last half hour, they were giving the time every five minutes. And I knew there'd be a one-minute countdown at the end. So I was never in any danger of delaying too long."

MacLeod tried to suppress a shudder of his own. "Good strategy. But of course, since I'm not Ahriman, I wasn't thinking about any such thing. After I saw you, I didn't even remember what night it was."

Richie nodded. "Finally, I reared back and swung -" His voice broke. "But at that moment, something happened. You don't remember any of this? Suddenly, there was...a _light_ shining within and around you. Pure white radiance. I had never understood what 'transfiguration' meant, but I do now. I didn't know what you were, but definitely not a demon." His eyes, brimming with tears, searched MacLeod's face.

"No," MacLeod breathed. "I don't remember. I'm sure I wasn't aware of it. Were my eyes still closed?"

"Yes."

"And I wasn't even praying... Did some supernatural force stop your sword, Richie? Or did you stop the swing yourself?"

"This gets even more unbelievable." Richie's voice dropped to an awed whisper. "I tried to stop the swing, but I...I couldn't...stop it...quite in time. I nicked you. I swear it was hardly more than a paper cut, Mac! There's no scar on your neck." They both knew cuts on the neck or throat were among the few injuries that would affect an Immortal as seriously - and permanently - as a mortal.

MacLeod resisted the urge to put a hand to his neck. "That's all right," he said, sure something more was coming.

"There was...blood. Just a few drops, but it was on my sword. And the sword was still in my hands." Richie gazed at his palms as if some secret lay hidden there. "I felt something flow through the sword and into me. And all at once, I _knew_ - Mac, _I knew everything you were thinking!"_ Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Everything you wanted to tell me through the Quickening. I even knew that you thought you saw Tessa, and pulled away from _Tessa_ because you were so concerned for _me!"_ He buried his face in his hands, and the sobs came at last, wracking his sturdy frame.

MacLeod put his arms around him and held him, barely aware he was also in tears. "It's all right, it's all right. It's all over now. I love you. But then, you already know that."

In time the sobs eased, and Richie straightened and managed a shaky smile. "Do you understand it?"

MacLeod shook his head. "No. Divine intervention? Magic? The strength of some special bond between us? I wouldn't presume to guess. All we can do is give thanks...and keep a special place in our hearts for Pellinore. He never had a happy ending."

"That's right." The haunted look in Richie's eyes told MacLeod how closely he had identified with the long-dead hermit. "Anyway, after all that, I dropped my sword and...and I remember I fell on my knees. Just in time. On the stroke of midnight, you passed out in my arms.

"Mac, I can't tell you how scared I was. I was afraid that somehow, I had really injured you."

"I'm sorry, Richie. I can't explain that, either. When I woke up, I thought for a horrible second I had only dreamed you were alive." MacLeod realized he was still holding Richie, seeking assurance he was real. Reluctantly, he released him. "But how did you find Methos and Joe?"

A sheepish grin. "That actually wasn't hard. Once I knew you were you, it was clear you'd been telling the truth when you implied Joe was still your Watcher. If you'd lived in Paris all this time, he'd be here too, and I guessed he'd have another blues club. The phone number was in the book - the name of the place cued me in right away. And Methos was hanging out with Joe. They were staying sober so they could keep the bar crowd under control."

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"I heard that," Methos piped up. "Do you think _getting here_ was easy, right after midnight? I need my nourishment now because I was run over and killed twice, trampled to death three times."

At MacLeod's stunned look, he sighed. "That was a thing called a _joke_, MacLeod. You really have to start getting your act together."

"You're right, I do." MacLeod smiled broadly. "And you have to improve yours."

Joe chuckled. "Sounds like things are getting back to normal around here.

"We've been trying to coax Richie to eat," he told MacLeod. "Maybe now we can interest both of you. Breakfast, a belated dinner, whatever?"

MacLeod and Richie exchanged glances, and started to nod.

Then something prompted MacLeod to stride to the nearest porthole and look out. "What time is it?"

Richie, at his elbow, said, "Almost daybreak."

MacLeod turned, and their eyes met. "Shall we -?"

"Oh, yes."

"Breakfast can wait," MacLeod told the others. "We're going on deck to watch the sunrise."

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And the new day dawned bringing the new millennium.

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The End


End file.
